


A Ransomed Ghost

by ElwritesFanworks



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: 1940s, Alternate Universe - Noir, Annoying Coworkers, Awkward Flirting, BAMF!Cosette, BAMF!Valjean, Case Fic, Catholic Guilt, Class Issues, Confused Javert, Conspiracy, Detective Noir, Dieselpunk, Drinking & Talking, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Eureka Moment, F/M, Fear, Femme Fatale, Headcanon, Hotels, Illustrated, Intimidation, Javert's grim sense of humor, Kidnapping, M/M, Married Couple, Married Sex, Memories, Middle Aged Virgins, Mild Gore, Military Backstory, Missing Persons, More tags will come, Mystery, Panic Attacks, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Racism, Radio, Rating May Change, Revenge, Run-On Sentences, Smoking, Surveillance, Suspicions, Threats, Threats of Violence, Undercover as a Couple, Uneasy Allies, Veterans, Vigilantism, Virginity, World War II, a near constant soundtrack of Edith Piaf, double agent!Javert, femme fatale!Cosette, grizzled detective!Javert, in that neither Cosette nor Javert are into it, married!Cosette, missing!Valjean, mysterious ally, not totally useless!Marius, office banter and bullshit, people who hunt Nazis post-war, shame regarding sex, slightly more than mild gore, society's seedy underbelly, this is pretentious and i am sorry, triple agent!Javert?, typewriters, veteran!Javert, veteran!Valjean, virgin!Javert, war hero!Valjean, weird dieselpunk alternate world thing, what even is this?, who can it be? - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-12-31
Updated: 2016-01-15
Packaged: 2018-05-10 15:02:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 12,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5590687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElwritesFanworks/pseuds/ElwritesFanworks
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Javert goes from law-abiding police inspector to double-agent and co-conspirator as he attempts to solve the disappearance of one M. Ultime Fauchelevent, at the behest of his daughter and her husband. What seems, at first, to be a simple overreaction on the lady's part proves to be nightmarish mess that sends Javert down the rabbit hole in search of answers, as his past and present knowledge of the missing man collide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Woman

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> UPDATE: Now Illustrated! I'm hoping to do one picture per chapter, or at least per main character. The drawing is by me, but not without some tracing - I'm not above that. So Seyfried's facial anatomy was traced,though the makeup and coloring/painting is all me. Same for the suit, skyline, font. It's basically more a collage that's been painted on top of, if that makes sense. If this was a serious work I might feel bad, but it's all in fun and it's just fanworks so hopefully nobody's pissed off. If I had to do it all by had it'd take 50 years to do and look like garbage.
> 
> \--
> 
> First of all, I can't write mysteries, let alone noir, so IDK why I'm doing this to myself. *sadface*
> 
> Second, I blame this on two things 1) Fallout 4 not installing correctly (so that I'm burned out and four days into computer fixing/tinkering. 2) Orson Welles's delightful Les Mis radio play which has kept me company while my soul has been slowly being destroyed by computer problems. Listen to it. It was the first Les Mis production I ever encountered, years ago now, and after all this time, it's still by far my favorite.
> 
> I've been meaning to do this for a while. Les Mis fic. Noir AUs. Idk. We'll see what comes of it, if anything. Feedback is always appreciated. As usual I'm unbeta'd and writing this at an ungodly hour so, please, point out errors if you see them.
> 
> Also, Cosette is, appearance-wise, based on Seyfried. With a more 1940s look to her, mind you. Tbh everyone is, in this fic (movieverse, I mean. Not that they all look like Cosette. That'd be terrifying.) 
> 
> Also, this is less accurate!1940s Paris, more alternate universe!dieselpunk Paris. So some stuff, like Maxim's, is real, and some stuff, like the Police HQ (with the giant eye (which is reminiscent of so many things, not least of which is that fucking terrifying fascist building with Mussolini's head on it (if you haven't seen it - look it up. Or don't, and save your innocence. It's like something out of LSD: Dream Emulator, or like, an actual drug-fueled nightmare.) Also, WW2 may or may not have happened. I haven't decided. That's how fast and loose we're playing here, people.
> 
> Anyway. This is a thing. Born of frustration and... yeah. Idk. Just go with it, I guess.

* * *

 

Chapter One: The Woman

The woman was young, but her face was old. All of her features were pinched, and worry left an ugly crease in her brow. She walked down the street, holding her slim frame perfectly erect, alert, like a fox among hound dogs. She took a drag from a cigarette, arms crossed before her like a shield, and cast a furtive glance up at the building to her right, whose imposing grey façade loomed over her, over the whole damn, dirty city.

Sitting at his desk by the window, on the fifth floor, fingers hovering over the worn keys of his standard-issue typewriter, Police Inspector Javert watched her.

It had not begun as a conscious decision on his part; rather, it was the result of too many years of cultivated suspicion. _D'être l'œil qui veille sur tous, sauf Dieu._ It was etched in the marbled archway over the bathrooms, the holding cells, his very office. Javert walked beneath it daily, where it stood, in wrought iron, over the main doors, beneath a giant, half-sphere, a gaudy, sculpted eye. All policemen were to take this motto seriously; Javert took it more seriously than most. Any behaviour that was out of the ordinary caught his steel-eyed gaze and held it. This strange woman was no exception.

The girl shivered – it was unseasonably cold for October, and her well-tailored jacket offered little protection from what Javert knew to be a biting wind.

Augustin – a former subordinate, newly promoted in a slick and swift manner that spoke of greased palms and private arrangements, thin, wolfish, the resident smart-mouth on the fifth floor and rakish terror of the secretary pool, sauntered over, grinning too wide, baring his teeth when he spotted the girl on the street below.

“Easy, there, Romeo. She’s too young for you.”

Javert startled and his face burned. He turned his glare towards the unfinished line of text he’d been typing, refusing to give Augustin the satisfaction of seeing him tick.

“You shouldn’t waste time on girls like that. Rich girls don’t give a damn about men of our paygrade, least not when they look like you. And see how thin she is! Fucking her would be like fucking a rosebush – all sharp edges. I didn’t think that was your type.”

“You never think,” Javert muttered, cursing when he noticed a mistake near the top of his report. _Homme_ had become _gomme._ Damn it all. He’d have to start again.

“Aaaaanyway,” Augustin continued, enraptured by the sound of his own voice, “I thought you were giving little Lisette a taste of your truncheon.”

Javert looked up at him, midway through setting a fresh page.

“Who’s Lisette?” he deadpanned. He knew, of course. Her looks outranked any other secretary in the building. All curves and white-blonde hair (bottle-blonde, of course. Much too gauche for an office girl, parading around like that.) A tittering, shrill voice. Not bad, if you went for that sort of thing. (Javert didn’t.)

“No wonder everyone thinks you’re a queer,” Augustin sneered, but there was no more malice in it than usual. “Poor old Javert, married to his work. You do still have a working prick in those trousers, then, or has it withered away to dust?”

“Yes, yes,” Javert snapped, waving a hand at him. “I haven’t the time for your perverse inquiries about my private life, Augustin. Do you actually have something of value to say, or are you just loitering by my desk until it is time for lunch?”

“Javert, you wound and insult me!” the younger man laughed, pressing a hand to his breast in mock agony. Javert resisted the urge to roll his eyes.

“Some of us have jobs to do, boy,” he growled, with enough edge to his voice to make himself clear.

Augustin nodded, chuckling.

“So it is, old man. As a matter of fact, I am here to give you this.”

Javert blinked at the envelope that Augustin withdrew from his shirt pocket. He blinked again when it was in his hands. Blank. No name. No distinguishing features.

“What is this?” he asked.

“You tell me. It was delivered to my mailbox by mistake.”

“How do you know it’s mine?” he blurted out.

“Read the back, wise guy,” Augustin prompted. Javert turned it over, and sure enough, there, printed in an slanted, elegant hand, was his name.

“Well,” he said, the word sticking in his throat. He brought the letter to his nose and sniffed it. Perfume – expensive or, at least, exotic. Spicy and sweet. A lady author, then.

“Enjoy your love note, Romeo,” Augustin laughed, losing interest when the clock struck twelve and the men were let off for lunch, and the unmarried ones, skirt-chasing. Javert remained at his desk. He had a fish sandwich in one of his coat pockets and there was always coffee in the office’s pot from the morning. He hesitated, thumb poised on the edge of the envelope.

Could be dangerous. Could be poisoned.

He withdrew his handkerchief and placed it over his nose, took up his letter opener, and tore in.

The letter was accompanied by a photograph, which he set aside temporarily. He picked up the paper and squinted at it. That same, slanting hand, while attractive, was hard on the eyes, and Javert had never been a strong reader.

_My dear Monsieur,_

_If you are reading this, know that you are my last hope._

_Someone I love very much is in grave danger. I am in grave danger too now, possibly. Writing to you is a risk I have to take. Monsieur, my father is missing. Someone has stolen him away, and has sent no word as to his whereabouts or safety. My father is a good man. He has a past, however, that makes going to the police the usual way impossible. My husband is quite well-off; I fear someone means to blackmail us. We could pay, of course, but there’s no telling what sinister characters might do – and my father an old man, nearing sixty!_

_In going through his things, I have found reference to you. He seems to have known you, though he never spoke of you to me. Monsieur, you are my only chance at saving him._

_Please do not tell anyone about this. It must be off the record or not at all._

_I am waiting outside the precinct. I will wait all morning, as if for a man to meet me. If you come, you will be the man. If not, my husband will fetch me, and no suspicion will be raised. In either case, burn this letter at your earliest convenience._

_I have included my photograph, so you can know me on sight. We must pretend to know each other, for I fear someone may be watching me even now, and the only hope I have is if he thinks we are old friends._

_Please, help me, Inspector Javert._

_May God protect you,_  
_Cosette Pontmercy_

He studied the photograph. Sure enough, it was of the girl from outside. Round-faced, with a little sharp nob of a chin. Doe-eyed, lips full and pouting. Straight, centered nose. Very pretty. Film star pretty, if you went for that sort of thing. (Javert didn’t.)

What to do, then? Another look to his right and he saw her, now walking in place, one hand on her hat as a fierce gust tried to make off with it. She turned her face upwards, and Javert was sure she could see him, though he knew it was impossible in a building so tall and large.

 _Perhaps I can convince her to make a proper report,_ the inspector mused, rubbing his prickly jaw. He could try, at least. He knew girls like her – rich, sheltered. They hear a bump in the night and call the National Guard in the morning. It was probably nothing. The old man most likely wanted a vacation – a few days to himself.

Javert took his coat and hat off the rack and headed for the elevator. He didn’t speak to the operator but to give his instructions. He felt absurdly on edge. And why? What harm could such a young girl do him? His fingers twitched and he wished for a cigarette.

“Baffling,” he mouthed, shaking his head.

The girl was standing by a lamp post when he emerged from the front door. She caught his eye and her whole demeanor changed. She smiled widely and hurried over, kissing his cheeks and leaning in to embrace him as he stood, stiff and startled, unused to such social niceties.

“Play along,” she murmured against his ear. “I think we’re being watched.”

She pulled back, spoke more loudly.

“Ah, but you look handsome today in your uniform! You’ll come with me, yes?”

He matched her languid, indulgent tone. He was hardly a great actor, but he’d been undercover before.

“Where would you like to go?” he asked, his voice warm but not overly so. Her actions thus far had been ambiguous enough that he was unsure if he was to play a lover or a father to her. He settled for an uncomfortable shade in between as she took his hand and hailed a taxi. They settled into the back together. She smelled of that strange, foreign spice. Faintly of citrus. She kept hold of his hand.

“To Maxim’s, if you please, Monsieur.”

The driver nodded. The girl had a clear, strong voice, neither sharp nor affected. She settled back into her seat and smiled a secret sort of smile, gripping Javert’s fingers tightly.

They did not speak again until they stepped out of the cab at No. 3 of the rue Royale. She took the Inspector by the arm.

“Come, Inspector. We have much to discuss.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> D'être l'œil qui veille sur tous, sauf Dieu.
> 
> Random made up motto: 'To be the eye watching all, except God' essentially. (If the construction is weird, you can blame a spotty French curriculum in Canadian Catholic schools, and the fact that I rely too much on Google Translate to make up for my educational shortcomings.)
> 
> Also, homme = man. Gomme is either chewing gum or eraser depending on context.


	2. The Man

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Including an old Maxim menu I found a scan of online because, hey, why not?
> 
> Also, femme fatale!Cosette is officially the coolest thing I have ever written. XD
> 
> Oh, and also, I've decided WW2 did happen and Javert served at some point. It'll be a plot point later but don't worry too much about it now. :P

* * *

Two: The Man

Javert felt eyes on him the minute he set foot in the grandeur of Maxim’s. He couldn’t afford a place like this on his salary. Either the patrons would think he was here with Mme. Pontmercy to conduct an affair, or they’d think he was taking a bribe.

“My usual table, please,” Cosette told the maître d.

After they were seated, she smiled at Javert’s surly expression, bumping her foot against his ankle.

“Smile, Monsieur! It is not every day a man of your means can dine at such a fine establishment. Enjoy yourself!”

Javert grimaced.

“People will get ideas,” he said lowly. “People will _talk.”_

Cosette nodded, gracefully unfolding her napkin.

“They will. Marius - my husband - and I have an agreement, so you will be quite safe from accusations of bribery or other illegal action.”

Javert cocked his head.

“Oh?”

“Mm. You and I are to pretend we’re... carrying on. My husband is too influential for anyone to accuse me of cuckolding him outright. I understand this may embarrass you, but if my husband could agree, then surely you can. After all, he has to watch another man pretend to woo me. You only need to accept the affections of a beautiful woman. That ought to be reward in itself.”

Javert felt a telltale flush creep up his neck. He coughed, throat suddenly dry.

“But Madame –” he began feebly, knowing full-well that it was the best option to divert suspicion.

“I will do anything to find my father,” Cosette said, and despite her smile, her voice held a note of icy determination that settled the entire matter. Javert nodded.

“Of course, Madame.”

Cosette’s eyes warmed.

“Good. And none of that. You will call me Cosette.”

Cosette beamed disarmingly at the waiter when he approached. She arranged for a fine wine to be brought out and poured, at which time she ordered lunch for herself and Javert as though it was a common occurrence, and kept up her charm until the waiter departed, whereupon she turned back to the inspector and took his hand, leaning in close.

“We may talk of my father now. Speak softly, pray. Don’t look shocked at what I am going to tell you, for it _will_ shock you.”

Javert nodded minutely, lifting his glass of wine to his lips unthinkingly, for he was still on duty. The full-bodied red was sweet on his tongue.

Cosette took a breath, squeezing his hand a fraction tighter.

“My father is Jean Valjean.”

Javert choked on a mouthful of wine and made an inelegant noise as he struggled to clear it from his airway, earning him a few glares from nearby patrons. He blinked tearfully.

“Sorry,” he wheezed. “I just. I was not expecting that.”

She nodded, letting her leg rub his more conspicuously beneath the table, masking his startled reaction as one of excitement.

“Ah, mon chou,” she said, just loud enough for the people closest to them to overhear. “If only my husband was as _responsive_ a man as you are!”

It took all Javert’s willpower not to choke again.

“When do you get off work?” she asked. Javert shrugged.

“I normally put in some overtime. I’m not often home until ten.”

She clicked her tongue.

“Pauvre chou, he works so hard!”

She leaned in again to whisper, and Javert felt something being pressed into his hand.

“I have rented a room in a hotel – nothing too extravagant. We need to appear discrete. Meet me there when you are done for the day. I will fill you in on the rest of my father’s circumstances there.”

The waiter arrived with the food, and Cosette retreated, turning her attention to her lamb. Javert mirrored her movements to the best of his ability, conscious of the way he chewed, the way he held his fork.

~~~

Cosette returned him to the station after lunch, a bit drunk, stomach aching, the food and wine proving too much for his uneducated palate, but otherwise none the worse for wear. If his coworkers had suspected what he’d been up to, none of them said a thing, although Augustin did flash him a particularly lewd grin.

Javert finished his reports and handed them in, clocking out at a record-setting seven fifteen. He hailed a cab, and gave the driver the address Cosette had slipped him during their meal.

The walk to the main doors of the hotel was embarrassing. The man gave Javert a knowing look, confirming his suspicions that this place had a seedy reputation – as though the peeling wallpaper and shady clientele were not enough. The man wordlessly gave him a key to a room on the third floor, and Javert took a long and odious elevator ride there, while the operator licked and smacked his lips incessantly.

  1. A thoroughly unremarkable room, but then, that was the point, wasn’t it? Javert squared his shoulders and let himself in.



Cosette smiled up at him from where she reclined on a chaise longue that had seen better days. She’d put on a long, satin robe in a champagne hue, and her hair was down, curling round her shoulders.

“Good evening, Inspector,” she said, and there was a touch of laughter in her voice.

“Good evening.”

“The details are just there, in the envelope.”

She pointed to the coffee table. Cosette rose to her feet as Javert sat down, smoothing down her robe in a fluid motion.

“I’m going to make use of the shower,” she said, more loudly, and retreated. Soon Javert heard the water come on. She returned, dry and smiling, and sat in a chair across from him.

“You never know who can be listening,” she explained, now that the water was loud enough to mask her voice. “I’m sorry if it’s a bit of a mess, by the way – I had to lay all the notes out myself, you see. My husband – he’s a lawyer, and he helped, but neither of us are used to solving mysteries. Hey now, you don’t mind if I smoke, do you?”

Javert shook his head. Cosette lit up and inhaled deeply, sighing as tendrils of sweet-smelling haze expelled from her painted mouth.

The Inspector stared down at the file.

It was all there. The convict from his early work as a prison guard before he’d gone away to war. The man who had evaded him and haunted him for decades. It was _all right there._

His hands were clenched to the point of shaking. He read slowly, carefully. Cosette had done a fine job reporting on what she knew. He was about to say so when he turned the page and the words died on his tongue.

It was a photograph of Valjean that faced him. Oh, the man was older, now, but he was the same. The only incongruous thing about him was the disarming little smile that played upon his lips.

“You see now, why it is impossible that I should go to the police in the usual way,” Cosette said, worry in her face again. “My poor Papa is a wanted man.”

Javert swallowed hard and set the file down.

“Why me?” he asked hoarsely. “If you know about his past then surely you know about mine. Why would you trust me with his life?”

Cosette shrugged, a sort of cool resignation about her.

“If he is alive, then you’ll want to catch him. Catch him and capture him. Perhaps you think you will send him to jail, afterwards. I hope you will not try something so foolish. As I said, I’ll do whatever I must for my father. My husband is a lawyer. He is very good. If some misfortune befell you, I doubt the perpetrator would ever be brought to justice.”

Her eyes were like ice now, and Javert felt a cold sweat break out on his back. She blinked and was the sweet-hearted ingénue once more.

“You will catch him because it is in your nature to do so, like a tomcat and a mouse. That’s all I need to know, to trust you. You will not turn him in, because you would have to give the case up. It wouldn’t be intimate, just yours and his. All sorts of irritating young officers bumbling around, spoiling the chase for you? You’d never allow that, would you?”

Javert shook his head. The girl was sharp – dangerously sharp.

“I’m glad we agree,” she smiled. “Well, then. I suppose it’s time I told you about the night my father disappeared.”


	3. The War

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Remember when I said 'don't worry about Javert's wartime backstory?'  
> Um.  
> Worry about his wartime backstory. X'D
> 
> I may be a history student but my specialty sure as heck isn't WW2 France. So if I've made a mess of this, sorry. (Ask me to write about the Civil War and I can hook you up. :P)
> 
> I'm glad people are liking this so far, by the way. Thanks for the kind words, all of you. :D
> 
> Also, I found a way to make Madeleine a well-respected heroic figure without making him a mayor. I think it fits the tone of this AU fairly well.

* * *

The War

Rain beat harshly down against the dirty windows of the Inspector’s apartment. It was loud – strange weather, unseasonable to have such a storm. He had to strain to hear the wireless, his head bowed low over the table, a plate of pan-fried smelts by his right arm, going cold, forgotten. (He couldn’t stomach anything, anyway.)

Sitting there, it was as familiar as breathing, as washing, as shaving his face.

It had been the same, back then. The crackling, tinny sound of the inferior machine, Pierre Dac’s sing-song voice transmitting spottily, there and then gone, there and then gone.

_... Radio Paris ment, Radio Paris ment, Radio Paris est allemand._

It was too surreal, to be once more at his low kitchen table in the middle of the night, a half-empty box of cigarettes in front of him, liquor in his otherwise empty stomach. Piaf on the radio this time.

Valjean was back. Back in his life, back in his _sights._

Javert coughed. He felt sick. His head ached – he hadn’t chain-smoked like this in years.

It was clear that Cosette was in deeper than she knew, and now she’d dragged Javert down with her. (She’d been right of course. He couldn’t get out now – not with the ultimate prize so close at hand.) The more she’d said in that hotel, the more Javert knew that she'd arrived at the wrong conclusion. Trust the rich to always assume a ransom! Javert was sure now that it was anything but.

The photograph was still in his breast pocket. He’d taken it with her permission, and if she thought it strange, she didn’t say so. A grown man, obsessed with a ghost. Perhaps she laughed about it now that he was gone, leaning on her husband’s shoulder. _What a strange one, that Javert!_

His hands shook when he pulled out the picture and set it down on the table. That man – that evasive, damnable man – had no right to stand there, tall, regal looking.

“He’d used a false name then as well, you see,” she’d said. “He’d gone by Madeleine.”

It all came crashing down – everything upon him. The weight of it was terrible.

Générale de brigade Madeleine. Chevalier. L’espoir, the men had called him. Even de Gaulle had spoken highly of him – and it was all there, in the file, in the smile on the man’s thin lips. The smug satisfaction in his eyes.

How? How had Javert not seen it? It was the impossibility of it - that a low-life like Valjean could be even half of the man that Madeleine had been. A convict, rising to the rank of Brigadier General? And how the hell had he done _that?_  (Javert knew – Javert remembered the story – the man who saved his entire battalion from enemy fire at Libreville with an almost freakish display of military might, organization, and raw brute strength.) He’d been awarded _l’Ordre national de la Légion d’honneur_ for that, and the reputation of a hero, while Javert had to be content with his rank of sous-lieutenant. Always passed over for promotion, always – while men like Valjean swept in and stole the glory!

The Inspector lit another cigarette.

He had seen the man in the paper – had heard him speak on the radio. The hero of the exiled - hope for France. Redeemer, some had chanted when they saw him, or so it was said. Javert didn't know. Couldn't remember. (Had he said such things? Had he held him in such high esteem as that?) They’d both been there, at Bir Hakeim. They’d been brothers in arms. He’d been in his grasp – at arm’s reach. How could he have missed it?

“Incompetence,” the man hissed bitterly. “Stupidity.”

He hated to think of it, of Africa, and now that too had been dragged out like some hideous family secret.

There was nothing he liked to drink. No wine to be found. Javert had to make do with a bottle of cognac, a gift from a colleague last Christmas. It was nearly empty when he rose unsteadily to his feet and staggered to his writing desk.

It was still there, in the drawer. The Croix de Lorraine, that dark ribbon, ought to have inspired pride in him, but it didn’t. It couldn’t. He’d only gotten it by default – the one survivor in his platoon. The only man left with an intact chest to pin a medal on.

It all came back to Valjean. Valjean and the war. The evidence pointed away from a ransom, instead to Madeleine, as he’d been known. Javert wasn’t stupid. He knew there were still sympathizers lurking in the shadows, men and women who’d hoped the Vichy regime would last. Some who wished France was annexed completely, absorbed and digested by the bloated German state. Every so often something would shift and the city would vomit up a few sick fucks who kept pictures of old Adolf in their sitting rooms, like you would a family portrait, or an icon of the Blessed Virgin.

They had still not contact the family. It had been eight days and not a peep. No other valuables were taken, except for Valjean’s medals and a photograph of him shaking the hand of General de Gaulle, which Cosette said had been found, torn to pieces, in the bushes beneath Valjean’s bedroom window.

This was not ransom. This was revenge. Someone had seen what Javert had not – had placed the face of Ultime Fauchelevent as the same as the Hope of Free France. Someone had done his job better than Javert himself.

He had said as much to Cosette. It was no use lying to a woman like that.

“If they have made the connections I have not,” he voiced, “how am I to catch them? Clearly they are one step ahead. You’d be better off going to the police, as a whole. Getting a winder investigative force engaged.”

She’d refused, adamant that it was better for her father that the world was not aware he was missing. Then she had moaned in a loud, desperate fashion, and pushed on the bed so that the headboard knocked against the stained, thin wall.

“They won’t believe it if it’s just me doing this,” she said by way of explanation. “We don’t want our cover to be blown just yet.”

Javert had nodded, cheeks blazing hot, and followed her example. After a sufficient amount of time, the woman made a show of lighting a cigarette, returning to draping herself all over the chaise longue.

“Don’t look so like a beaten dog,” she chuckled. “I don’t scream like that for just any man.”

Javert had made the thirty minute walk back to his apartment in the rain. He felt like his skin didn’t fit right. Like the earth had changed its orbit just a little – just enough to make everything feel wrong.

The sparsely furnished hovel the policeman called home offered no comfort tonight. Even the radio left a sour note in the air.

The cognac was gone. The last cigarette smoldered in Javert’s old granite ashtray. The clock read three in the morning.

He shoved the photograph into the drawer with his medal, and locked them both away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Pierre Dac/the Radio Paris reference has to do with the occupation of France during the war. It means 'Radio Paris lies, Radio Paris is German.' Javert (and Valjean) fought for Free France and Javert would've probably heard that broadcast.
> 
> Javert's medal is the Médaille commémorative des services volontaires dans la France libre. Is he bitter for not being the war hero Valjean turned out to be? In a word... yes.
> 
> Valjean was promoted to Brigadier General thanks to his heroism and got the lowest rank (chevalier) of the highest military order in France for his trouble. 
> 
> Cosette is still a BAMF. A bit of a minx, too. :P


	4. The Note

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert is getting mixed up in all sorts, it seems. The dangers are very real.
> 
> Trigger warning for a little bit of period-typical racism. Nothing Javert does, and nothing done directly - but it's mentioned off-hand as something that goes on at HQ among some of the other police officers.
> 
> Also, warning for another OC coming in in the next chapter. Not a warning, really, since he'll (hopefully) be well received. More of a 'welcome.'
> 
> And yes, Javert rides a bicycle to work. :P It's practical financially and fitness-wise, lol.
> 
> Thanks for the continued interest - you are all awesome and I love your enthusiasm. Thank you so much! :)
> 
> Last thing, I decided to make Chabouillet Javert's superior on the police force, but his duties are not even remotely secretarial since they have 1940s bimbettes for that in this universe. So I've just made him a superintendent.

* * *

The Note   


Javert fell asleep well after four, and woke at half-past nine. In all his years in the police, he had been late only once, and that was when some adolescent scum had made off with his bicycle in the night. No flu, no ulcer, no sleepless night had kept him from his post, until this mess with Valjean. Cursing, the Inspector made haste, leaving his customary breakfast of stale bread and day-old tea untouched.

When he arrived at the fifth floor, he could hardly breathe, his smoke-filled lungs protesting their recent treatment in loud, honking coughs. Augustin swanned by, smirking cruelly.

“Late night with the lady friend, Romeo?”

“Fuck off,” Javert wheezed, grimacing.

“You look like shit! Seriously, what did you do last night? She rode you pretty hard, hmm?”

Javert made a rude gesture at the younger man, who only laughed.

“M. Chabouillet wants to see you, by the way,” he taunted. A cold chill slithered snake-like along Javert’s spine.

“What about?”

Surely one mistake – one morning sleeping through his alarm – surely it hadn’t been so grave as to make him answer to his superiors for it?

“He didn’t say. You’d best get over to him soon, though. I think it’s urgent.”

Any fear and annoyance was gone from Javert’s face when he knocked on Chabouillet's office door.

“Come in,” the older man called, and, “Ah, Javert! I see you’ve come in at last.”

“Yes – I’m sorry, sir. My alarm – I must have forgot to set it –”

“Are you alright? You look like you haven’t had a wink of sleep!”

“I’m fine. Sir, Augustin said you wanted to see me?”

“Mm. I’m sending you out to follow something up, this afternoon.”

“Very good, sir.”

Inwardly, Javert was rejoicing. No punishment, but an end to his turn on desk duty? He didn’t know what to do with so much good fortune!

“Florian’s wife had the baby,” the older man continued. Javert nodded, befuddled by the non-sequitur.

“It… it’s in a very fragile state, I’m afraid. Something to do with the heart.”

Florian’s wife… Marie-Eve? Javert remembered a short, round woman, with dimples and a red face. She’d been the one to insist on the cognac.

“I’m sorry,” Javert said. He meant it.

“Mm. Well, there’s a card circulating somewhere. The secretaries have it at the moment, I think. Do try to sign it.”

“I will.”

The unvoiced question lingered in the air.

“I bring it to your attention,” Chabouillet went on, “because I’d wanted Florian to break in the new fellow today. Under the circumstances, I gave him the day off.”

“Under the circumstances.”

“Which means that I need an equally qualified man to show him the ropes. Augustin’s too newly promoted, and a pain in the ass besides. That leaves you.”

Javert furrowed his brow.

“Why can’t Grégoire take him?”

“The lad is foreign – dark, too. From the colonies, I think. You know how Grégoire feels about blacks – it’d be a nightmare, putting them in a patrol car together.”

Javert nodded.

“Yes, but -”

“He’ll be here after lunch,” Chabouillet added. “Try to finish your desk work before then.”

Javert returned with his orders. He was all but done when he happened to glance out the window at the street below.

Standing there, warm this time in Persian lamb, was Cosette. Javert swallowed, a line deepening between his brows. What was she doing there? They’d made no plan to meet.

The bell sounded the start of the lunch hour. The Inspector nearly jumped out of his skin. He had his coat and hat on and was walking out of the main doors before he could think otherwise. Cosette looked up at him and flashed him a tight smile, stubbing her cigarette out on the brick wall of the building behind her.

“Good afternoon, mon chou,” she said, stepping close to embrace him.

“What are you doing here?” Javert hissed, surprised by his own ire. She took his arm.

“Walk with me a little ways,” she purred, as though soothing a mad animal.

They walked for two blocks. Each step they took made Javert feel less like a man and more like a mouse in the claws of a cat.

“Don’t look behind you,” Cosette said sweetly, “but there’s a man following us in a black car.”

Javert resisted the urge to turn his head. Instead, he looked at the reflection in a passing window. Sure enough, there was a car there, with blackened windows that gave nothing away. They walked until they came to a park bench. Cosette sat upon it and took something out of her pocket. It was a pastry, wrapped in plain brown paper. The grease soaked through in places. The sight of it remind Javert he hadn’t eaten, and his stomach gurgled.

Breaking a tiny portion off, Cosette clicked her tongue. Soon, a small congregation of pigeons had gathered at her feet, staring up at her.

“Take a piece,” she murmured. “Feed the birds.”

Javert’s hands obeyed while his mind struggled to articulate the frustration and impotent rage that festered in him at her presence.

“Don’t come to see me at work again,” he warned.

“Why, don’t you like it? One would think it’d suit you, having a girl around for a change. Unmarried at your age… what do people think of you?”

Javert ignored the jibe with practiced ease.

“Speaking of marriage – you have one too many husbands to be going around with me. You’re causing a scene.”

“Good. That is rather the point of my being there, after all.”

She threw another hunk of bread to the birds. They pecked at each other, crowding over it, shoving each other away.

“Why did you meet me?” Javert pressed.

“There’s been a… development,” she replied. “A note, at last.”

“A ransom note?”

“Naturally. Marius found it last night.”

Javert frowned.

“Why did the perpetrator wait so long to send it?”

Cosette’s eyes hardened.

“I’ll do your job for you, then, shall I?”

Javert held her gaze.

“You should look like you’re happier in my company,” he retorted. “We are supposed to be lovers after all.”

Cosette rolled her eyes and leaned over, kissing Javert’s jaw.

“Put your hand on my thigh,” she whispered, her lips soft against his ear. “Good. Now slide it into my coat – do it discretely, like you’re enjoying it. The ransom note is tucked into the waistband of my skirt.”

Javert felt the paper’s edge and crumpled it up in his hand. He retreated, stuck his hand in his pocket, and hid the note.

“Is it the original?” he asked as he pulled back. “Or a copy?”

“A copy. Marius has the original in a safe place.”

Javert nodded. They sat together until the last of the bread was gone. Cosette rose to her feet and placed her black-gloved hand in his bare one.

“Back to the station, then,” she cooed. “Put your arm around me, won’t you?”

Javert swallowed his objections as he caught sight of the car again. He pulled her close and kissed her on the temple, and they remained together thus until the headquarters were in view.

“I'll be seeing you,” she murmured and pecked him on the cheek before slipping away and leaving him alone. The car was still there. Javert fumbled in his pocket for his police identification card, keeping watch over the vehicle all the while. It only pulled away when he went inside.


	5. The Car

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have a soft spot for 'the new guy in the workplace' trope, mainly because I am just as eager, but 10x more awkward when I'm new to a work environment, myself. So Ben is a sweetie, moreso than just a plot device. I mean, he needs to exist, as a plot device, but I'm hoping he'll be likable too. And that it comes across that Javert's issues with him stem from seeing too much of himself (as he was when he started on the force (i.e. not bitter and burnt out)) in Ben.
> 
> Also, I have literally been pulling names from everywhere for this. Ben is the result of me watching French cop shows. Martineau is from a local TV commercial. I don't even... naming OCs is the hardest part of any fic, tbh.
> 
> Lastly, when Mme. Martineau says 'Lorraine' she refers to the Battle of Lorraine in WW1.

* * *

The Car

The new recruit was waiting for Javert when he returned. He was taller than Javert had expected – with a much bigger smile. The lad couldn’t seem to stop smiling, even as he shook Javert’s hand and introduced himself.

“Benoît,” he beamed. “Ben. I’m new to the force.”

Obviously, Javert thought. Instead he forced a smile and extricated his hand.

“Where were you before?”

“The Academy – the Police Academy, sir. Before that, I was with my mother, in Morocco.”

“You’re a long way from home.”

“Not so, Monsieur. My father was from Paris. He was a white as you are.”

“I have no problem with –”

“I know. The others have spoken highly of you. I know you’re a just man. I only mean to say, I have as much of a stake in the protection of this city as anyone. It is my home as well. I am here for the good of the people – for Paris – and for my father. He passed away two years ago this November.”

“My condolences,” Javert said gruffly. He didn’t like how friendly this young man was. He was too eager to serve. It would get him nowhere, an attitude like that. People would take advantage of it.

“Take your hat off,” he added, pointing to the regulation policeman’s cap the lad was sporting. “You don’t need to wear it inside – just when you’re out and about.”

“If I may, sir, I’ll keep it on. I like the way it feels, to wear it.”

 _Dieu_. Javert sighed.

“Alright. Whatever. Well, have you eaten?”

“Yes sir!”

“Have you checked the blackboard?”

“Sir?”

“The blackboard. One of the office girls always writes the itinerary there. Of course, it’s always subject to change in our line of work, but it’s best to take a look at it. Go. Come back and tell me what it says.”

“Of course.”

Ben retreated, and came back smiling even wider than before.

“There’s an elderly woman who wants to see a police officer, but she is housebound, so we are going to her. Barring any emergency, we’re to drive straight there and take her statement.”

“Right. Let’s go then. Get your coat.”

Javert hated babysitting, hated training the newcomers when they were green as spring buds, fresh out of the academy. Still, it wasn’t their fault they were young, even he would grudgingly admit. He tried his best to make his patience last till the end of the preliminary car ride, at least.

The trip was markedly uneventful. Javert had Ben drive to get him used to the car and the traffic. The trainee’s smile never faded once. He was determined, it seemed, to wring out every bit of useful information from Javert, and so he attacked him with a barrage of questions about anything and everything.

“Enough,” Javert said at last. “We are nearly there. It’s best to sort out what you’ll do and say before you meet a civilian. Take the luxury of time now. Reflect.”

They drove in silence the rest of the way.

The old woman, one Mme. Martineau, was a window in her eighties at least, with a small, raisin-like face, surrounded by a coronet of frizzled white hair. When the policemen parked, and walked up the path to her front door, she smiled toothlessly at them and introduced them to all seven of her cats.

“They are good cats, Monsieurs,” she insisted. “Pet one and see.”

Ben did so immediately. Javert cringed and held back.

“Madame, you requested us for a purpose?” he prompted. The old woman nodded.

“Yes, yes. I have to tell you something. Would you like anything to eat?”

“No thank you, Madame.”

“To drink, then?”

“No thank you.”

“Not a… a cup of tea?”

“Madame. Please. We are busy men,” Javert interjected. The woman frowned, but nodded.

“I need to report a missing person,” she stated. Javert nodded.

“And who would that be? A cat, perhaps?”

The woman’s frown deepened. Ben interrupted her retort with an apologetic smile.

“Of course not a cat, Madame. My superior, he is only trying to make a joke – to amuse you. Please, can you tell us who is missing?”

The woman nodded, smiling at the younger man as she might a grandchild.

“Yes. A very good man, Monsieur. Very good. Does all sorts of nice things in the neighborhood – and at the legion, too. My poor Paul, God rest his soul – he loved the Legion, when he was alive. It was a second home to him, after Lorraine. He would’ve loved all the things M. Fauchelevent did for the place…”

Javert flinched, staring at her in disbelief.

“Who?”

“M. Fauchelevent. Ultime Fauchelevent – the man who is missing.”

Javert’s throat tightened. His mouth was dry. Ben looked at him, concerned.

“Are you alright, sir?”

“Y-yes, I… I think…”

His ears had begun to ring.

“I will… I… I’m sorry. I’ll go sit in the car – I have… a cold, I think.”

“Ah, and thank you for bringing it to my door!” the old woman snapped. Javert ignored her, returning to the passenger side door. He opened it and went in.

Javert studied the sweat beading in his palms as he tried to breathe like a normal person. He knew he was only drawing attention to his discomfort – that would only make everything worse. God only knew if his cover was even protecting him at this point.

You slipped, he thought, clenching his fists. You slipped and are lost, now.

Javert looked back at the house, where the young recruit was speaking kindly to the old woman, taking her statement as scrawny cats ran in and out of his legs.

He turned his head away, and saw something in the side mirror that made his blood turn to ice.

It was a black car, idling behind them in the street. A black car with tinted windows.


	6. The Book

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a short little installment to tide folks over. i'm back at university this week. so busy busy. but i will make time for this as it's my favorite creative project at the moment. :) (I'm also hoping to crank out some illustrations for this bad boy at some point. we'll see how it goes.)
> 
> also, glad to know people are liking Ben as much as I am.
> 
> of note, in this dieselpunk universe, it is not ok to be gay. it's not illegal for your average civilian (just as it wouldn't be in France at the time (it was decriminalized during the revolution and then in the 1810 penal code) but it is seen as pretty immoral and unnatural. and, since this is a pseudo-police state-weird dystopian thing, there is a sort of 'Corruption of Office' type charge that Javert could be convicted of since he's a member of the police i.e. held to a higher standard than the rabble he oversees. It's not historically accurate (the history major in me is dying just writing that, lol) but this is dieselpunk, so yeah. i doubt a real policeman would've been allowed to keep his job if he was accused of being gay in the 1940s. i sense he might've been 'pushed out'. but maybe i'm wrong (i really know fuck all about France. i'm learning but my background is Irish and North American history, so yeah.) But seriously, it needs to carry weight - the threat of being slandered. It needs to be something that could be held over him. So yeah. Fictional alternate history time. :P
> 
> also, for those who don't know, the word 'froid' means 'cold.' lastly, i threw a nod to St. Michael since he's the patron saint of cops.

* * *

The Book

Javert had been so unresponsive, so frozen in terror, that when Ben returned to the car to brief him and drive them both back to the station, he’d found the Inspector siting with his eyes closed, shaking and deathly pale.

Fearful that the man was sicker than he’d first let on, Ben asked that Javert be granted some leave as soon as they were back at HQ. Chabouillet had shrugged.

“He has enough vacation days in reserve to last him a year. Let him have the evening off, if he needs it.”

Javert had been too poorly to protest.

He’d staggered home on shaky legs, lighting a cigarette at the first opportunity. The taste, the heat, felt like a lifeline. Nicotine was a familiar comfort in an otherwise overwhelming and malevolent world. It kept him sane, but only just. He was sure he was seeing things – going mad – for around every corner, in every shop window, he saw glimpses of that ominous black car.

He held it together as best he could until he was safely within his apartment. He locked the door – double locked it, shoved a chair up against it. He couldn’t breathe. One window in his apartment. Square, ugly – big enough to be seen through. It didn’t open. More the glass of a fish tank than an apartment window. The curtains was threadbare, but he drew it anyway. (He _couldn’t breathe!)_ He was shaking so badly it looked like he was having a fit. (Maybe he was.)

It took him four tries to unbutton his jacket.

His jacket and shirt were soaked through with fear sweat that stunk. His undershirt too – the old, stained fabric translucent and stuck to his skin. He left all his clothes in a heap on the floor and raced to the security of his bathroom. He locked that door as well, and turned the shower on. He’d pay for wasting the water, he knew, but in that moment, he didn’t care.

The sound of the old pipes groaning and the droplets splashing against chipped and mildewed tile covered his sobs. He left the tap turned to _‘froid’_ – no sense wasting the heat. Naked, he sat on the bathroom floor, facing the door. In a fit of paranoia, he grabbed his straight-razor from the drawer where he stored his toiletries and held it out before him – a makeshift weapon for a desperate man.

He did not want to die like this – hunted, feeling no better than a fugitive. Whatever the letter was about – whatever the kidnappers wanted, they would not be satisfied with a lump sum. They were too organized. Professional. Gangsters? A hold-over from the war, perhaps, swooping in to fill the vacuum of power?

Horror set in when he realized he’d left the ransom note in the pocket of his coat, somewhere beyond the safety of the bathroom. He was cracking, he despaired, swallowing spit so thick it seemed to glue his throat shut. There was no air here, either. The whole apartment hadn’t a single breath of air inside it.

God, what had he gotten himself into? All for that cursed, slimy criminal, Valjean! He knew next to nothing about these ‘Pontmercy’ people. Oh, they were rick. Society people – sure. What did they care what happened to men like him, men who took salaries and depended on – were proud of – their work? If he kept on with the case he’d be gutted like a fish, his miserable corpse thrown in the Seine, cinder-blocks tied to his ankles, more likely than not. If he stopped now, there was nothing to stop Cosette from telling his superiors about his unprofessional conduct – his taking the case under the table – his affair with – not her, no, she wouldn’t risk her reputation. Her jibes, though, her sneer – the off-hand comments about what kept him away from the fairer sex. A fresh hell opened up before him. He’d be easy to frame – Cosette wouldn’t even have to get her hands dirty. Someone would find anonymous evidence – a letter perhaps, or a witness who’d say they saw him getting up to all sorts in ways that violated the laws of nature. The irony was rich – Javert had always felt shame when thinking of sex – with men or with women, he knew he’d be too horrified to do anything – he’d never been proven wrong, not yet in his life. But he’d be thrown before the courts and all his colleagues who joked about it now, in the secure knowledge that he was simply too dense to find a wife – would be suspicious, and would tell the judge the truth: that they had no way of knowing whether or not Javert the Inspector was, in private, Javert the sodomite.

His arm convulsed, his fingers slipped, and he dropped the blade with a clatter. He rolled onto his hands and knees and pushed his head into the shower, past the curtain and under the icy spray. He heaved mouthful after mouthful, vomiting all over the rust-stained tub, naked and sick and scared of monsters beyond the door, like a child.

A knock at the door nearly made him piss himself with fear. He rose to his feet and, quiet as he could, edged towards the door. He strained to listen, heart hammering in his chest.

Nothing.

Wrapping himself in a towel, grabbing his razor once more, the Inspector slowly unlocked the bathroom door. He crept towards his front door on tiptoes and crouched low to peer through the keyhole. There was no one outside.

Poised to strike, he cracked the door open a fraction. It struck something with a soft ‘thunk.’

Javert looked down. There was a leather-bound journal at his feet.

Glancing around once more at the deserted hallway, he cautiously picked the volume up and retreated into his apartment, shutting and barricading the door again.

The journal weighed heavy in his hand. He turned it over and saw a note pinned to the back.

 _This may help._  
_Remember: sometimes the void is a sanctuary. Sometimes the light can blind you._  
_God bless you. St. Michael the Archangel, defend you.  
_ _\- A Friend_


	7. The Message

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note/warning: there will be some Cosette/Marius stuff in this chapter. Also some kind of disturbing stuff from the as-yet-unnamed ransomer.

* * *

The Message

“How is it coming along? Your little policeman. He’s doing his job?”

Cosette rolled her shoulder – a gesture too elegant to call a shrug, and moved her feet off the sofa.

“Sit with me, Marius. I miss you.”

“You see me all the time,” Marius laughed, but joined his wife anyway. The lawyer rolled his eyes as her small white feet ended up in his lap, but he started rubbing them fondly.

“He’d better do his job,” Cosette lamented. “I want my Papa back with us. And I want to stop letting that cop play suitor to me.”

“Is he still as bad as it as when you started?”

Cosette nodded.

“Honestly, love, it’s like he’s never touched a woman before.”

“So, should I be worried?” Marius teased.

“Not at all! He’s too old – and besides, he’s so stiff around me!”

“Mm. I’m stiff around you.”

“Not like that!” Cosette squealed, feeling proof of her husband’s ardor brush against the arch of her left foot. She let him pull her into reach, but after a few minutes of petting, shook her head.

“I’m sorry,” she sighed. “I really… I want to. But it’s… I’m still worried.”

Marius nodded.

“I’m worried to, to be honest. It’s not the money – I can pay. I just… I wish we knew more. Knew he was…”

Neither of them had the heart to say ‘alive.’

“You’re still… up,” Cosette sighed. Marius flushed.

“Sorry.”

“No. No – don’t be. I could just… with my hand?”

“Mm, that’d be nice.”

Things progressed in their natural way.

“Marius?”

“Hmm?”

“Marius – did you hear the –”

“Shh… almost… there –”

“Marius! Something just hit the window!”

Marius’s climax was ruined by a spike of alarm. He cursed, stumbling to his feet and tugging his trousers up, staggering to the large window that dominated the corner of their room. Pushing back the curtain with his free hand, he shook his head.

“There’s nothing here,” he complained.

“Yes there is – I heard something hit the window! Marius, I’m frightened – what if someone shot at the house?”

“If they shot from this angle, the window would no longer be intact,” the young man protested, but he opened the window enough to peer out into the darkness.

“Well?” Cosette called.

“There’s something down on the ground – hold on.”

Marius reached out. His fingers closed around something small and hard and wrapped in a bit of newsprint.

“What the hell is –”

He fell silent abruptly.

“What? What is it?”

Cosette rose to her feet, but Marius waved him away.

“Don’t come over here,” he ordered. “I mean it, Cosette. You don’t… you don’t want to see this.”

He turned to her, and his face was bloodless, horrified.

“It’s Valjean – it’s his finger.”


	8. The Call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Javert is such a sad human being.  
> Also, YET ANOTHER CLIFFHANGER. :P

* * *

The Call

Pictures and pictures. Pages and Pages. The journal was filled with images of Valjean.

Javert studied each photograph in turn, a sick sensation swelling in his chest. Valjean at war – Madeleine, in those days – had been as glorious and magnificent as some great bird – an eagle made into a man. He had played the part so well – been both humble and honorable. He had gone around, after he’d earned his promotion, and met with the men, the common soldiers, inspiring morale. He’d even _sung_ – not well, but with enthusiasm. Joined in with the crowds of fearful privates and fresh-faced officers to crack a joke or shake a hand. He’d been on the radio, too. Javert knew all too well – he had listened, always. The man had a sincerity about him – ha, what a joke! But he had seemed to genuine, so brave, so honorable, then.

“How does it feel,” one interviewer had asked, “knowing you’ve become a national symbol – the hope of the Free French?”

Madeleine had laughed, a soft, self-deprecating chuckle. “I’m flattered of course – what man wouldn’t be? But more than that, I’m compelled.”

“Compelled? To do what?”

“To be a better man when I wake each morning than the one I was when I went to bed. I didn’t ask people to look up to me, but if I can offer some comfort or… or guidance, to some of the brave young men out there, I’ll do my best. For them. For them and for France. God grant us the control of her once more.”

He’d been so believable. Javert had believed. He had laid awake sometimes, when memories haunted him, or when there was an impending fight drawing near. The other men in his company would think of wives and sweethearts, or jobs or school they left behind. He would think of that young brigadier general, only a few years older than himself, and he’d think, if I must die tomorrow, please, let me do it saving the life of a man like that.

He’d fantasized about it – a somewhat morbid pastime, he’d admit. He was ashamed of it now, but back then, with the heat of Africa indistinguishable from the flames of hell, with death and carnage all around him, he’d imagine how sweet it might feel, to fall before such a man. He’d even sometimes go as far as to imagine Madeleine noticing – coming to kneel beside him, gathering him in his arms. Lifting him up with that legendary strength and carrying him to some quiet place where he could die in peace. Would the pray together? Would Madeleine allow that? He had seemed the type who would – even with a lowly sous-lieutenant. It had filled Javert with indescribable joy, to imagine such a beautiful end to his otherwise unremarkable life.

It was pathetic, he supposed, but those dreams of death that left him so warm, so secure, had been some of the best moments he’d ever known.

“It was all lies,” Javert hissed. “Falsehoods! Fiction!”

He turned the page. He’d reached the end of the book, now and none of it – not a single picture – gave him a clue as to the missing man’s whereabouts. _You’re too close to this,_ he reasoned. _Too affected. You’ll never catch him if you can’t calm down._ Still, the injustice of it all – that the universe which had never been kind to him would take away the one treasured memory he had – made him sick with anger.

The last page had some writing on it. More in that same hand.

_He hides in plain view._

If he did, then Javert was a fool. There was no way he’d have let him slip past, not again.

There was a medal pinned to the inside of the back-cover. A saint’s medal, St. Michael again. Javert unfastened it from the book and held it in his palm, studying it.

He was missing something, he was sure. Who was this friend, who claimed to be his helper? A priest, perhaps? If it were any other saint, he might’ve thought so, but St. Michael made him wonder. A policeman? It made sense. Perhaps there was another man trying to track down this kidnapper. It wasn’t unlikely there would me more than one rich family keeping their missing relative a secret from the newspapers. Perhaps that it was Valjean at all was nothing more than a coincidence – one that Cosette had noticed, and had used to get the best of the Paris Constabulary working on the case for free.

The pieces fit. A policeman, then. But who? Who would care about a case like this? Who – moreover – knew society people, knew them and cared enough to compromise his career?

Javert was startled out of his thoughts by the ringing of the telephone. He set the medal aside and rose to his feet. He answered.

It was Cosette. She sounded terrified.

“Please, monsieur, you must come help us at once!” she wept. “It’s terrible – oh please!”

It must’ve been, for her to disregard secrecy and risk a call.

“Where?” Javert replied, cutting to the chase.

She stammered out an address, blubbered a bit, and hung up. Javert dressed for the cold night air and retrieved his bicycle, setting off into the night.


	9. The Place

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another cliffhanger, and SUSPEEEEENSE :P
> 
> Also, if this chapter has more typos than usual, I'm sorry. I spent all day at the hospital with tonsil issues and am still super sick, so I'm trying my best, but my brain is not as sharp as usual lol.

* * *

The Place

The finger was unmistakably that of a man – thick, blunt, gnarled. Calloused – belonging to one who’d known toil. It sat, rigid and cold, upon the coffee table.

“How do you know it’s his?” Javert asked of the young man staring at it.

“Who else is there?” this fellow, Marius Pontmercy, replied. “I can think of no one else whose fingers would likely be cut off and thrown at our window. Anyway, can’t you investigate? Check the fingerprints?”

“You seem to think that policemen just wander into work with random bits of evidence and free reign of the department’s resources. I can’t just produce a finger out of thin air and say ‘ah, pardon Monsieur, but I appear to have discovered a finger – entirely by accident – and wonder if it’s connected to a cold case – a man who broke parole.’ What you’re asking me to do is impossible!”

“I don’t understand it,” Cosette chimed in from where she sat, staring at the far wall. Her usual fairness had turned to a sickly shade, and her voice sounded clipped, as though she was holding back a sob. “They only just sent us the ransom note. We haven’t even been contacted about where to send the money – why send this our way?”

She didn’t mean the finger, specifically, arriving at their window as it had, but rather that, upon closer inspection, it had arrived wrapped in a piece of newsprint on which the words ‘for the master of the house only’ were hastily scrawled.

“I think,” Javert mused, “we must consider this to be an act of revenge. You practice law, do you not, monsieur?”

Marius nodded.

“Then I am sure it is connected. Someone is after you. You are their target. Valjean,” and his mouth puckered at the name, as though tasting something sour, “is merely a convenient means of hurting you.”

“It cannot be,” Cosette said firmly. “Marius never takes cases likely to endanger us. Tell him!”

Marius nodded again.

“It’s true! There is no one I’ve wronged to the point that this would be reasonable!”

“Criminals aren’t reasonable, least of all when emotion’s involved,” Javert retorted. “No gentleman of your standing would cut off the body parts of an old man – we can agree on this – but that gets us no closer to finding the culprit. As to why they didn’t want Cosette to see it, I think they must know her – perhaps not want to hurt her.”

“Not want to hurt me? They’ve _stolen my father and cut his finger off!”_

“I mean, perhaps they have a soft spot. Towards women. Some men do – if this is the case, then we have something to use. Tell me, do either of you know of anyone fitting that description? No one you’ve known through the courts, monsieur?”

“No, I tell you. We are in the dark,” Marius sighed. He stared at the digit and shuddered.

“What’s to become of it?” he asked. The Inspector shrugged.

“If you intend to give your father-in-law a proper burial some day, you can have it sent to his plot to await the rest of him.”

Cosette made a pained sound, shaking her head. She looked, suddenly, like nothing more than a small, frightened girl.

“We can’t keep it – you’ll have to…”

Marius gestured helplessly.

“Please take the… thing with you.”

Javert rolled his eyes, and rolled the finger up in the newsprint, slipping it into his pocket. He pointedly ignored the thrill of satisfaction it gave him to know that here, at least, was a fraction of Valjean that would not get away. He let his gaze drift over the fine living room.

The Pontmercys spared no expense in furnishing their home with the latest and greatest of European post-war design. Much of it confused Javert, who took no pleasure in looking at the strangely shaped lamps and the large, ugly painting that looked like it had been painted by a toddler.

“You like the composition?” Marius seemed desperate to change the subject. “It’s American – very new.”

Javert squinted at it.

“It looks like a smear of filth,” he said at last. “I hope it didn’t cost you dearly.”

Cosette chuckled at that.

“You don’t have an artistic bone in your body, monsieur,” she admonished. “You know nothing of beauty.”

 _I know it’s not worth whatever you paid for it,_ Javert wanted to say, but he didn’t. He kept circling the room, watching, always watching. It was in his nature to watch. To notice.

“Your flowers,” he said suddenly. “They’re all dead.”

“They were a gift,” Marius interjected. “From Valjean, before he…”

“We can’t throw them away. Not yet,” Cosette murmured, the hostility leaving her in a sigh.

Javert turned away from them, disinterested in sentimentality.

“Always he would get them for me,” Cosette murmured, more to herself than to the men in the room. “Always. From a flower seller. A girl not much older than me. White lilies, for purity, and sunflowers, for happy thoughts. He’d always say it just like that – I’m not sure if it’s true. The meanings I mean.”

She looked back at Javert and her large crystalline eyes were welling up with tears.

“Does it please you,” she said sharply, “to see a rich woman weak with grief? To see her weep? I speak of him as though he is dead - my dear father. Surely if they're slicing him up -”

She inhaled sharply, eyes clenched shut as if pained. Javert, caught off guard by the outburst, managed to shake his head.

“No, madame. I don’t like to see anyone fall victim to an injustice such as this.”

“My father’s a fugitive,” she laughed humorlessly.

“His crimes are not your own. It’s natural to be loyal to that which took you in and raised you.”

Cosette nodded.

“Yes. Well, as I said, I would give up everything I own if it meant I could see my papa again, could walk with him again to see that poor flower seller on le boulevard Saint-Michel.”

Cosette’s tears fell at last. Marius enfolded her in his arms.

Javert, the diligent watcher, saw none of it. He was too busy – his mind a mess of gears all spinning, faster and faster until suddenly, everything made gruesome and terrible sense.

“Did you say,” he said hoarsely, “Saint-Michel? Saint-Michel is where your father bought the flowers?”

Cosette looked up, confused.

“Yes. From a flower seller. He used to go there and give money to the poor – Inspector, where are you going?”

Javert threw his coat and hat on, a whirlwind of action. _Not Saint Michael the Archangel. Saint-Michel, the place! The clue had been staring him in the face the whole time! He is in plain view, the journal had said. Just so!  
_

“I have a theory,” Javert said, “and if I’m right, your father may be found this very night!”


	10. The Plea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, compared to the others this chapter is hugely long, I know, but I couldn't find a way to break it up satisfactorally so yeah. Sorry. It's huge.
> 
> Also thanks for the enthusiasm, and for being patient as I crank out this massive chapter. And, in response to expressed concern, my tonsils are better, but the rest of me is, overall, worse, since the tonsil flare-up turned into a full-fledged cold the likes of which I haven't experienced in years. Alas. But I am (slowly) mending, and this story is the creative diversion I need to escape the annoyance of being under the weather.
> 
> Now for some notes/details:
> 
> www (dot) youtube (dot) com (slash) watch (question mark) v=x-ue69sF3Co  
> ^ for an example of Marie-José, who Javert prefers to Piaf
> 
> Also lol what even is this fic I can't French History WW2 argh don't judge me plz this is not an academic paper if it sucks I am sorry but I'm not JSTOR-ing this because I have SO MANY ACTUAL TERM PAPERS TO WRITE and so you are getting google-searched WW2 history, not academically sourced WW2 history welp what can you do

* * *

The Plea

The wheels of Javert’s bicycle skidded over the rain-slicked streets. His coat did little to keep out the storm and the chill. A small waterfall cascaded down from his hat-brim, obscuring his vision.

He rode on.

The Latin Quarter was surprisingly quiet this night – the weather had turned too foul for anyone to want to be out of doors. Only the destitute, the vagrants, and the occasional mangy cat were witness to the Inspector’s frantic pedaling.

He had nowhere specific to look, but that didn’t matter. He could ride along rue Saint Michel until something stood out. He was made for this – espionage filled him with a fearlessness he’d never known. He felt weightless. It was a greater high than facing down enemy guns. It was electric, atomic even. New and wildly strong, absurdly powerful.

A flower stall stood deserted, covered up for the night. The bicycle screeched to a halt. Javert abandoned it, running into the street, looking up at the surrounding buildings.

There was a drunk slumped against the side of the stand, taking what little shelter he could in its shadow. Javert shook him awake roughly, eyes afire.

“I’m looking for a man –” he began. The old drunk began to struggle, kicking feebly.

“Go down to the docks for that – I’m no use to you! Police! Police! Put it up my backside and I’ll tear it off!”

Javert cursed.

“Idiot – I’m not – have you seen a man – he’d look like this, but older.”

The Inspector produced a creased photograph from his breast pocket. The drunk squinted, then shook his head.

“I don’t know him. If only you could show some generosity – then perhaps I might.”

“I have no money – a bicycle. I’ve got a bicycle. Do you want it?”

The drunk looked over at the discarded contraption.

“What else?” he asked. Javert tightened his hold on the man’s shirtfront.

“Police! I’m being robbed!” the old man cried. Javert dropped him unceremoniously and felt around in his pockets and on his person.

“My – my tie clip. It’s good quality, alright? It was a gift – marking ten years’ service with the Paris Police. Call for them now, why don’t you – you, who’d rob a desperate man!”

The drunk grabbed the tie clip and lurched greedily towards the bicycle.

“The apartments on the corner, with the green front door. I’ve often seen a man like that, lurking there.”

Javert didn’t waste time thanking his informant, tearing off down the street like a madman, open coat catching each gust of wind, tie flapping madly.

The door was old and the lock was easily picked with the bit of wire Javert carried for such a purpose. (There were times when a policeman had to resort to creative tactics, after all.) There was no one inside to mind the desk. Javert leafed through all the papers he could find, leather gloves leaving no trace. At last he saw it – a list of occupants.

Apartment 6. The leger showed that the alleged occupant bore his name. Javert grit his teeth at the audacity, grabbed the spare key off its hook upon the wall, and hurried to the stairs.

He held his breath all the way up to the third floor. There were only two apartments here, neither doors numbered, but Javert nearly tripped over a wind-up toy outside the first. There would be no children in the apartment that he sought. He moved to the other door, turned the key in the lock, and slowly entered.

The lights came on suddenly, blinding the Inspector temporarily. It was all the time it took for someone to shut the door and stand behind him. Javert felt the cool weight of a gun pressed to the back of his head.

“Who knows you’re here?” a voice hissed, hot breath against the cold sweat that trickled down the policeman’s neck. “The Pontmercys…?”

Javert swallowed hard. Narrowed his eyes.

“No. Not specifically. They don’t know you’re here, anyway. _Valjean.”_

An exhale against his skin. The gun withdrew. Javert turned around, shaking his head in disbelief. A glance downwards had him chuckling darkly.

“I’ve heard of commitment to a ruse,” he laughed, “but really. You’d go to such lengths as that?”

The bandage on the Valjean’s left hand was spotted with blood. The fugitive flashed a macabre smile.

“I’d do anything to protect those two.”

“I thought thieves only looked out for themselves.”

“You do me a disservice.”

He holstered his weapon.

“I suppose I owe you an explanation.”

Javert nodded.

“You suppose correctly.”

“Well, then. Would you like a drink?”

The Inspector shook his head, but took a seat when it was offered. Valjean limped to the radio and switched it on. Javert snorted as the first notes reached his ears.

“You’d think France had no singers but Piaf, the way they overplay her these days. What romantic nonsense!”

“I would’ve thought you’d have liked her.”

Javert huffed.

“She’s no Marie-José,” he muttered. Valjean chuckled and poured himself a glass of wine, settling back into the only free chair with a groan.

“We’re old men, now,” he laughed, stretching his leg out in front of him. It cracked audibly. “Shrapnel,” he said, by way of explanation.

“And here I was thinking this was the first time you’d pulled an elaborate disappearing act,” Javert glowered.

“I had my reasons then – I have even more reasons now.”

“Pray, tell me what they are. From where I’m sitting, you’ve succeeded in getting your old enemy back on your tail, and in terrorizing your newlywed daughter out of her wits.”

Valjean looked almost sheepish.

“It got away from me, I will admit. But believe me when I say, I never meant to get you involved, nor to frighten poor Cosette. Marius didn’t – he didn’t show her the finger, did he?”

Javert, at the reminder, dug the odious object out of his pocket and deposited it in Valjean’s glass of wine. He enjoyed the look of disgust that passed quickly over the fugitive’s face.

“How did you do it?” the Inspector asked. Valjean scowled.

“Must we go directly to the bloody bits? You'd like that, I suppose. Very well. With a cleaver, if you must know.”

Javert nodded. He patted his coat absently, and Valjean wordlessly offered him a cigarette.

“Thanks,” the policeman muttered, the word foreign on his tongue.

“So,” Valjean sighed wearily. “Where to begin?”

“You sent the journal,” Javert said.

“Correct.”

“And the ransom note?”

“That was also me, yes.”

Javert exhaled a ribbon of smoke.

“Why?”

“As you said. I had to disappear. I’d hoped Cosette and Marius would simply let me go, but they were too inquisitive. I used the ransom to buy myself time – a poor strategy,” at this, Valjean held up his maimed hand, “but a means to an end. I couldn’t let them find out the truth.”

“The truth?”

“That I’m a wanted man. Not just by the police.”

Javert furrowed his brow.

“Who – the people watching Cosette? Who are they?”

Valjean drummed the fingers of his good hand on the armrest of his chair.

“That was –”

“Not you again! Was any of this real?”

Valjean nodded.

“Of course! I’m sorry – I was just trying to keep an eye on things. But the journal I gave you – I left the clearest clues I could. The photographs.”

“What about them?”

“Some of the men in them – the more recent ones, especially. You recognized some of those fellows, yes?”

Javert thought back to the images. Really, all he’d noticed was Valjean. This man – the pursuit of him always left Javert feeling like an amateur, a step behind. (It infuriated him.) He wracked his brains.

“Low-level bureaucrats. Unimportant politicians.”

Valjean reached into his breast pocket and produced a thin notebook, which he handed wordlessly to the Inspector. Javert leafed through it, eyes growing wider page by page.

“These are –”

“A list of men who I suspect to be harboring Nazi sympathies. I’ve been keeping it since the war. I admit to faking my own death back then – though I never expected to wind up with shrapnel in the leg for my trouble. Ultime Fauchelevent was, at first, an alias of convenience, yes, but also of importance. You recall, when Madeleine was killed.”

Javert remembered the day – remembered his grief at the news – to lose the Hope of Free France, and so near the end of the war, too! Roadside accident. An explosion. His car and all trace of his body was destroyed. Javert had wept through the night, and when people sold remembrance tokens – little black ribbons from which hung disks bearing the fallen hero’s likeness – he’d bought one, and had worn it pinned to his uniform until his C.O. insisted it went against regulation, and made him get rid of it.

“I was approached,” Valjean said, “by a few fringe members of the Resistance. There were just a handful of them – the war was over. Most people wanted to move on. To forget. They didn’t. To them, the Vichy Regime had illuminated a weak spot. They were convinced that war criminals were everywhere… well. I knew how to hide in plain sight. They needed a spy. We were meant to purge the sickness of fascism from France once and for all. No one was supposed to get hurt – they assured me of that. Like a fool, I believed them.”

“So what changed?”

“I have no proof, but I have suspected someone in our group to have a little… side business, for a while now. Blackmail, specifically. Of some of the men we were after. What could I do? I was in too deep to tell anyone, and, as I said, there was no evidence – only my own inference. I decided to wait until I knew for sure, before risking speaking out. Then, about six weeks ago, my contact disappeared. A few days later, a body matching his description was pulled out of the Seine. All at once, all the communication lines went dead. Someone was onto us – that, and the group may have mutinied against whoever betrayed us. I didn’t stick around to find out. I knew that they wouldn’t stop at me. Cosette was in danger, too.”

“And so, once again, you disappeared.”

Valjean nodded, grimly fishing his finger out of his wineglass and setting it on the table.

“Do you think it’s sanitary, to drink this? I’d hate to let good wine go to waste.”

Javert shrugged.

“Why not? It’s your own finger.”

Valjean considered this. He drank, then nodded, smacking his lips.

“Good. It has not killed me.”

Javert blew a smoke ring in response. The fugitive raised his eyebrows.

“Who taught you that?” he asked, impressed. Javert took another drag, letting the smoke sit on his tongue before exhaling slowly.

“You did,” he said curtly.

“Me?”

“Mm. One of Madeleine’s morale boosting shows. You gave a talk to us – my company. A few others. There were many men there. Afterwards you stayed around to shake hands, sign photographs - that sort of thing. You taught some of us that trick with the smoke. You wouldn’t remember me, of course. I doubt you could’ve recognized me, without my guard’s uniform. I certainly didn’t recognize you.”

Valjean frowned.

“If you didn’t recognize me, then why approach me after the show?”

Javert cursed the traitorous flush that reddened his face. He stared at his knees, the weight of Valjean’s stare heavily upon him.

“Oh. You were a… a fan, then.”

Valjean sounded, if possible, more embarrassed than Javert himself felt. The Inspector shrugged, willing his face to remain expressionless.

“It was a long time ago.”

He stubbed out his cigarette and laced his hands together in his lap.

“So. Where do I fit into all this?”

“I need… this is strange to ask, I know, and more than I deserve, but… I need your help.”

Javert crossed his arms over his chest.

“In what capacity?”

“I need you to lie. I need you to convince Cosette and Marius to give up trying to find me.”

Javert furrowed his brow.

“They won’t do that unless you’re –”

“Exactly. You need to help me convince them that I have been killed.”

“Absolutely not.”

Valjean leaned forwards suddenly, his injured hand reaching out to grip Javert’s knee, hard.

“If you don’t help me, Cosette may be murdered. Marius also. If you won’t do it for them, do it for yourself – you’re in as much danger as they are.”

Javert could not speak. He stared at the hand on his leg, felt the blood of a convict soaking through the fabric of his trouser-leg. Sticking to his skin.

Valjean watched him, eyes wide and wet.

 _“Please,_ Javert.”

The Inspector swallowed. Shuddered.

Nodded.

“What do I have to do?”


End file.
